


This Must Be The Place

by iriswallpaper



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Case Fic, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, F/F, Fem!John - Freeform, Fem!Sherlock, FemLock Big Bang 2015, Femlock, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hate Crimes, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Masturbation, Misunderstandings, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Being Idiots, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Angst, Virgin Sherlock, homophobic incident, two idiots who won't talk about their feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 08:13:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4739216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper/pseuds/iriswallpaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock meet in a bookstore and become friends. Sherlock needs a flatmate so she invites John to move in. John works as a GP at a clinic and also helps Sherlock in her consulting detective work. After sharing a flat for several months, John finally acts on her feelings toward Sherlock. It goes well until Sherlock puts herself out as bait for a serial killer. After a close call with the killer, Sherlock finally opens up to John about her true feelings. Can they come to a compromise that meets both their needs? </p><p>This is not a fix-it/magic cock fic. John doesn’t “fix” Sherlock in any way. Because Sherlock’s not broken.</p><p>Art by Consulting Piskies. For FemLock Big Bang 2015.</p><p> </p><p>Title from Naive Melody by Talking Heads</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Doctor Johnnie Watson – known to her friends as John - had spent considerable time to finally find Gay’s The Word bookstore, so she was going to take her time browsing every aisle and damn well read every book’s flyleaf before making her selections. The tiny bookstore wasn’t crowded - in addition to John there were only a handful others browsing the shelves. John studiously avoided the other browsers’ eyes. It was 2015, and being gay was no longer something to hide, but being in a gay bookstore still made her feel a little uncomfortable.

Not that John was gay – she preferred to think of herself as _queer_. She wasn’t exactly out to anyone but her closest friends, but she didn’t try to hide her bisexuality either. It was more that due to heteronormative assumptions, she was normally assumed straight. John was of shorter-than-average height with a curvaceous figure and straight blonde hair that fell to the middle of her back. It was showing strands of premature gray but she didn’t bother to color it. She also didn’t bother with makeup, but neither of those would make anyone assume she was gay. Many women went bare faced, and also didn’t bother to shave their legs and armpits. John’s blonde hair worked in her favor there – both her legs and underarms were fuzzed so lightly she hadn’t bothered with the vanity of shaving since she’d joined the Army right after finishing her medical residency. To sum it up, John didn’t _look like_ a lesbian, as several friends had told her that when she’d opened up to them about her sexuality. She’d sighed and explained that being bisexual didn’t make her a lesbian and that there wasn’t a ‘pan look’ - or a ‘lesbian look’ for that matter, but she let it go because people were normally so ignorant, it wasn’t worth her time to try to change their minds.

John bent her head in order to closely read the back cover of a book that caught her eye _Girl Sex 101_ by Allison Moon. She shuffled forward absently without looking where she was going. At the same time a tall, slender woman absently shuffled backward while reading the back cover of a book. They collided and both of them dropped the books in which they’d been engrossed. John blushed furiously. It was bad enough to draw attention to herself here, but to draw attention from such a gorgeous woman made her blush even deeper. She bent to retrieve both books from the floor.

As John handed the book to the taller woman she appraised her with open appreciation. The woman must have been nearly six feet tall, made even taller by black stiletto-heel pumps. She was dressed conservatively in a charcoal gray suit and dark plum silk blouse but the cut of the ensemble took it from “conservative” to “borderline obscene.” The pencil skirt fit tight and short, hugging slender hips and pleasantly round buttocks; the jacket hugged the woman’s narrow shoulders and thin arms tightly and skimmed her small, high breasts pleasantly. The buttons barely held the silk blouse together but somehow managed to avoid gapping between buttonholes and had a navy cloth greatcoat was folded over her arm.

The woman’s face was one of the most interesting John had ever seen: ivory porcelain skin, high cheekbones, flawless makeup, lips that were almost too perfect to be real and … John gasped audibly. The woman’s eyes were the most arresting John had ever seen. Blue and green at the same time, flecked with gold, lashes almost too thick and long to be real under well shaped brows. All of this beauty was surrounded by a cloud of sable curls that fell to the woman’s shoulder blades, artfully arranged to look tousled. John felt rather drab by comparison in her cargo pants, white t-shirt, blue cardigan and combat boots.

John stared dumbly, forgetting to release the book when the woman grasped it. After a few beats the taller woman smiled and said ‘thank you’. John finally snapped out of her stupor. “Uhh, sorry. Sorry about that,” she babbled, trying to keep the attention of this beautiful creature. She held out her hand. “Johnnie Watson. My friends call me John. Sorry again.”

The woman gave John another half-smile and took the proffered hand. “Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. Pleased to meet you Ms. Watson.” Sherlock’s voice was deep and melodious, a rich alto that sent shivers down John’s spine.

“Please, call me John,” John grinned rather stupidly. She knew she was acting rather dim but she couldn’t seem to get herself under control. Not wanting to appear dense, she blurted, “Actually it’s Dr. Watson. But please, just John.”

Sherlock grinned enigmatically. “Of course, Dr. Watson, John. Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John’s brow crinkled. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Afghanistan or Iraq? It’s clear you’re just back from combat, I’m guessing Army.”

“Afghanistan and yes, I’m an army doctor. Well, I was. How did you … have we met before?” John felt even dimmer and knew that confusion was written all over her face.

“No, we haven’t met. Military bearing, your face and hands are tanned but it doesn’t extend above your wrist. You had to have acquired the tan abroad, but not on holiday, not sunbathing. Long sleeves mandatory thus in uniform. Military deployment thus Afghanistan or Iraq. Injury is evident in how you hold your bag. Shoulder injury, sustained in service.”

John grinned up at the taller woman. “That was amazing. Quite extraordinary.”

Sherlock’s small smile was rather reserved. “It’s written all over you, like a page in a book. Most people see but they don’t observe.”

“And you…”

“Observe.” Sherlock finished for John.

“Care to get coffee? I’d like to hear more about how to observe,:

Sherlock looked taken aback for a moment.

“Coffee? You want to. Get coffee? With me?” It was Sherlock’s turn to sputter stupidly.

“Yeah, let’s. I passed a coffee shop about a block down. Care to?” John smiled encouragingly.

Sherlock gave John a careful once-over, scanning her from head to toe. A line appeared across the bridge of her nose, clearly confused.

“Look, I’m not trying to pick you up or anything like that. Just a friendly chat. I’m newly back in London and don’t have many friends here anymore. I just thought … you know. But that’s okay. Sorry again about the bump.” John kept her eyes on the floor and tried not to let her disappointment show.

“No, no, it’s fine. Let me just pay for this.” Sherlock still sounded a little bewildered but a pleased note had crept into her voice. She turned toward the clerk with her book and took a slim black wallet from her small navy leather purse. Both were as elegant as everything else about Sherlock Holmes seemed to be. John stood a tad too close behind her while Sherlock waited to pay for her book. Sherlock shrugged into her overcoat as it was John’s turn to pay for her book. Sherlock looped a navy scarf around her long neck and turned up her coat collar as they left the bookstore.

Ten minutes later they were seated across from each other in a window booth at a cozy coffee shop. Sherlock added an alarming amount of sugar into her coffee while John added milk. Both the conversation and the silence felt unexpectedly natural given how that they'd just met. After a few minutes John found herself talking about about her time in the Royal Army Medical Corps and her medical training in London. Sherlock told John about her graduate studies in chemistry and her job as a consultant for the police and private clients. They talked on long after their cups were empty.

At last John worked up her courage to ask, “So, do you have a girlfriend, boyfriend, then?”

Sherlock gave John a slightly startled look. A crease appeared at the bridge of her lovely nose. She shook her head slightly. “Girlfriend? Boyfriend? No, not really my area.”

“That's fine.” John felt a little silly stating the obvious since they’d just met in a gay bookstore, but Sherlock seemed rather spooked by the turn of the conversation.

Sherlock narrowed her eyes at John. “I _know_ it’s fine.”

“So, you’ve got a girlfriend then?” John’s tried to keep her voice light.

“No.” John wasn't sure if she imagined the note of sadness she heard in Sherlock's voice as Sherlock averted her eyes, looking down into her now empty coffee cup

John smiled, attempting to hide her discomfort at Sherlock’s reply, but was secretly delighted to have confirmation that Sherlock was free of romantic attachments. She licked her lips and tried again. “Right, okay. You’re unattached. Like me. Fine; good.”

The startled look that Sherlock’s face had displayed during their conversation thus far shifted into something sharper, more suspicious. She looked out the window for a few heartbeats then straightened her shoulders and appeared to come to a decision. She looked back at John and began awkwardly, “John, I … I think you should know, I consider myself married to my work and while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for any …”

John sat back, flustered, and cut Sherlock off before she could finish her sentence. “No, no. I’m not asking. I’m just saying … it’s all fine.”

Sherlock gave John an appraising look then answered slowly. “Good. Thank you.” Sherlock nodded once.

After a few minutes of awkward silence they resumed their conversation. Sherlock gave John the details of two cases she was currently working, one for the Met and the other for a private client. John listened, enraptured by the detailed pictures of crime scenes Sherlock’s words wove. John felt her heartbeat accelerate at the thrill of danger inherent in Sherlock’s work.

At last John glanced at her watch. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, but I do have to be going. Why don’t we exchange numbers? I’d love to continue our chat some other time.”

Sherlock eyed John levelly. “Yes, you have an appointment with your therapist. She’s not right for you. Fire her.”

John raised a hand to her sternum in astonishment. “How did you … well, never mind. I really do need to go.”

Sherlock picked up her phone and entered John’s number as she dictated it, then rang it to give her number to John. They walked out together and shook hands in parting on the sidewalk. Sherlock walked a few steps, then turned to call over her shoulder, “John. Look, I’m in need of a flatmate. I have my eye on a nice place in central London.”

“Wait, Sherlock,” John called. She jogged a few steps to where Sherlock now stood. “I’m sort of in need of a flat share, too. Right now I’m in a bedsit, just by the week. I had hoped to find something I could afford on my army pension, but central London is quite a bit out of my budget.”

Sherlock grinned. “Don’t be concerned about that. The landlady gives me a special rate. I helped her out when her husband was sentenced to death row for double murder in Florida.”

“Got him off the charges, did you?” John asked.

“No, I found evidence that assured his conviction,” Sherlock deadpanned. “I play the violin when I’m thinking. I sometimes don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

John looked confused. “Right then. The violin? How about I come round to see the place.”

Sherlock’s smile could dim the sun. “Tomorrow, seven o’clock. The address is 221B Baker Street. See you then.” Sherlock winked then turned to go, striding down the block with a spring in her step, her hips swaying gently.

John paused when she reached the corner and looked over her shoulder to watch the tall, slim figure walk away from her. She licked her lips and wondered what she’d just gotten herself into. She’d only just met the beautiful, exceptional woman. She knew nothing about her other than she was queer, she played the violin, she consulted with the Met, studied chemistry and was unattached. That wasn’t much to go on when choosing a potential flatmate - but it was better than the dreary bedsit where John now spent her evenings.


	2. Chapter 2

As it turned out, the flat on Baker Street was quite nice, much more appealing to John than her tiny bedsit. If Sherlock were a little messy, then John was willing to overlook it. After all, John wasn’t exactly neat. The Army had forced organization on her, but John’s natural inclination was to be more relaxed about housekeeping.

Several things offset Sherlock’s clutter for John: the prime Central London location, the reasonable rent, the landlady who treated both she and Sherlock like cherished children, and _Sherlock_. The fascinating cases Sherlock invited her along on, the late night trips to Bart’s Hospital morgue, chasing criminals through dingy alleys, always trailing a step behind her brilliant flatmate. Sherlock was exasperating, stand-offish, brilliant, rude - and utterly fascinating to John.

After a few weeks John noticed that her stunning flatmate never brought anyone home, and as far as John knew she wasn't going out on dates either.J Surely women – men – _people_ – were falling all over themselves to ask her out? But night after night, Sherlock either stayed in working on an experiment at the kitchen table or ran around London on the trail of criminal suspects. 

John tried to distract herself from her preoccupation with her flatmate with a string of dates. Boyfriends who never lasted more than a few weeks came and went with such frequency that Sherlock once snarked that they’d have to install a revolving door at 221B. The comment stung John; she wanted to snap at Sherlock, to tell her the reason she couldn’t keep a boyfriend was that they tired of hearing her babble nonstop about her fascinating flatmate, or that John lost interest after a few weeks because the men she dated were so boring and ordinary when compared to Sherlock. John tried hard to hide her attraction; she loved the flat, she loved the life she had there. And if Sherlock wanted to keep it strictly platonic then John would rather have her as a friend than not have Sherlock in her life at all.

John found a position as General Practitioner at a clinic. One of her short-term boyfriends was the clinic manager – one she'd managed to stay friendly with. He’d let John know when an opening became available and John had accepted the position gratefully. It would be good to get back to the profession she’d studied for and worked hard to pursue. While she’d rather return to surgery, the clinic position offered the flexibility she wanted – flexibility to go to crime scenes with Sherlock and to continue to help with her cases.

*~*

John picked up two bottles of wine on the way home from her interview along with Chinese takeout. She wanted to share her good news with her flatmate and have a little celebration. 

When John got home to the flat she instantly noticed that Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. John started a fire in the fireplace and pushed the furniture out of the way. She fetched a blanket from her room and spread it on the floor in front of the fireplace then set out plates, chopsticks and the takeout containers in the middle of it. She found wine glasses in the kitchen and added them to the tableau.

The fire was blazing and had taken the chill out of the living room when John heard Sherlock’s heels tapping up the stairs. Sherlock came in and paused inside the doorway, taking off her scarf and coat with a confused look on her lovely face. “John?” she said.

“I thought we’d have a picnic tonight,” John said gleefully. “I have some great news. I got a job at a clinic today. Remember Sam, the guy I dated last month? He offered me a job at the clinic he manages. I thought we could have a picnic to celebrate.”

Sherlock hung up her coat then stepped out of her shoes. She padded barefoot to the blanket where John waited. “I suppose I should congratulate you, but it sounds rather dull.”

John sat cross-legged on the blanket and Sherlock folded her legs elegantly to the side. John’s jeans allowed her greater freedom of movement than Sherlock’s tight tailored skirt. Sherlock took off her jacket and carefully rolled the sleeves of her black silk blouse to her elbows. John liked to see Sherlock relax a little. She seemed so tightly wound most of the time. It warmed John’s heart to see her flatmate unwind and enjoy herself so she let the rude remark go without comment.

They finished off the take-out and worked their way through both bottles of wine. John got up to add more wood to the fire. Sherlock took the plates and empty take-out containers to the kitchen then returned to recline against the back of a chair, her long legs stretched out in front of her.

John returned to the blanket and sat beside Sherlock, her back against the same chair as Sherlock and her shorter legs stretched out next to Sherlock’s. Their shoulders brushed as John laid her head back against the chair, humming contentedly. She was more than a little buzzed. “You know, Sherlock, six months ago I could never have imagined,” John made a vague gesture with her hand, eyes closed. “This flat, working cases with you, new job and … you.” John opened her eyes and turned her head to meet Sherlock’s gaze. “You, Sherlock. I was so alone. And you changed it with one little accidental bump in a bookstore.”

Sherlock looked down at her wine glass, cradled in elegant hands in her lap. “What if I told you that bump wasn’t so accidental?” 

John chuckled. “Really? You nearly knocked me over on purpose?”

A charming blush spread across Sherlock’s cheekbones and nose. “Well, yes. I thought you looked interesting. I wanted to meet you but I thought that you probably wouldn’t be interested in me.”

“Not interested in you? You’re the most interesting person I’ve ever met.” John’s tone was earnest. She leaned forward, further into Sherlock’s personal space. Even seated, Sherlock was several inches taller so John had to crane her neck backward to maintain eye contact. “I’ve never met anyone as fascinating as you.” And without thinking, John surged upward and pressed her lips to Sherlock’s.

Sherlock remained still, neither responding nor pushing John away. John eventually felt Sherlock’s lack of response and turned her face away. “Sorry, sorry Sherlock. I’m… I just … it won’t happen again.” It was John’s turn to blush. She’d let the wine, the warmth of the fire and the relaxed camaraderie they were sharing get the better of her good sense. Now she’d endangered her friendship with Sherlock.

“John, it’s quite alright.” 

John turned back to face her flatmate. “Quite ...alright?” she asked tentatively.

Sherlock looked down at her hands still folded around her wineglass. “Yes. It was not unpleasant. I don’t mind. But I thought, with all the boyfriends, that you...”

“Don’t like women? I just haven’t met any women who I want to date lately.”

The corner of Sherlock’s lips lifted in a half-smile as she held John’s gaze. “You like both men and women? It thought, considering where we met, that might be the case, but you’ve only dated men since I’ve known you, so I thought perhaps you were just exploring?”

John lifted a hand to Sherlock’s chin, turning her flatmate’s lovely face toward her. “Well, I have met one woman I’d like to date. Yeah, and I’d like to do that again.”

“You could.”

John pulled Sherlock down for just the lightest brush of lips. Then John closed her eyes and angled Sherlock’s face so their lips slotted together. She took Sherlock’s lower lip between her own lips and sucked gently. Sherlock pulled a sharp breath in through her nose before she relaxed into the kiss. John licked the crease between Sherlock’s lips, pointing the tip of her tongue to nudge Sherlock’s lips apart. Sherlock parted her lips slightly, tentatively. John laved the inside of Sherlock’s lips slowly, gently. Before deepening the kiss, John leaned back to look into Sherlock’s slightly dazed eyes. “Is this okay?” John whispered.

Sherlock nodded, curls tumbling over her forehead. John reached up to brush the curls back and tucked them behind Sherlock’s ear. John caressed Sherlock’s cheekbone, her jaw, then ran her hand lightly over her neck and let it settle in the soft curls at the nape. Sherlock stared down into John’s eyes.

John moved slowly, adjusting herself to get more comfortable, stretching her legs and adjusting her back against the chair. She grasped Sherlock’s shoulders gently and pulled her half over her lap, then leaned in to kiss Sherlock properly. She kept the kiss tender but deep, caressing Sherlock’s tongue with hers over and over again. Sherlock shivered against John’s body.

John reached a hand to Sherlock’s waist to stroke her back through her tight silk shirt. Sherlock shivered again and pressed closer. John could feel Sherlock’s small, firm breasts press against her larger, plumper ones and feel the hardness of Sherlock’s nipples through the layers of their clothing. John moaned Sherlock’s name and tugged her shirt from the waistband of her skirt, running her hand over the warm, soft flesh underneath.

Sherlock pulled back sharply, looking alarmed. “John,” she said, voice rough. Sherlock refused to meet John’s eyes, seemingly unable to find words.

John took Sherlock’s chin in her hand. She tipped Sherlock’s face up until Sherlock met her gaze. “It’s okay, Sherlock. It’s all fine.”

Sherlock pulled back to put more distance between them. “John, I’ve never really done these things before. I had a girlfriend in uni, we got rather pissed once on wine and weed. Before I knew what was happening she was kissing me, pressing me back onto her bed, taking off my blouse.”

Sherlock paused for so long that John thought she’d abandoned the story. At long last she cleared her throat. “She got to my skirt and I balked. She was not very pleased about it.” The last sentence was spoken in such a low whisper that John had to strain to hear.

John raised a hand to smooth Sherlock’s hair from her forehead. She kissed Sherlock’s hairline tenderly. “I’m not like her, you know. I’m not unkind.”

Sherlock shook her head again. “I’m sorry, John. I have wanted to get closer to you. But now, I don’t think I can. I just.”

John kissed Sherlock’s forehead again. “I’m not in any hurry, Sherlock. We can do whatever you want. Whenever you want. Would it be okay if I did some of these things? I mean the kissing, not the-- ehm, other thing I just did.”

“It won't be what you want it to be. You have other expectations.”

“I won’t expect anything. I shouldn’t have pushed. You just give me a signal when you’re ready.”

“No,” Sherlock’s sweet alto voice rasped. “I mean yes, yes. What you’re doing now. It’s fine.”

John pulled Sherlock away from her chest by the shoulders so she could look in her eyes. “Fine is good with me.”


	3. Chapter 3

That signal came loud and clear late one night the following week. John was startled out of a deep sleep by Sherlock taking a seat on the edge of her bed. John sat up, pushing the hair from her face. “Sherlock, is something wrong?”

Sherlock hung her head. Her curls were matted from sleep. She wore a maroon satin nightdress that fell to the middle of her thighs. “I woke up thinking of what you said, John. I can’t get back to sleep. You said would wait for me.” She turned toward John; her face was in shadow, just a silhouette in the moonlight coming through John’s bedroom window. “Do you still?”

John laid a hand on Sherlock’s neck and stroked her cheekbone with a thumb. “Yes, of course.”

“Then kiss me.”

John sat up facing Sherlock, coming fully awake as the thrill of anticipation thrummed through her veins. She placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder gently and cupped Sherlock’s chin with the other. John leaned in slowly, pulling Sherlock down to reach her luscious lips. John kissed the corner of Sherlock’s mouth tenderly, then her Cupid’s bow, then fit their lips together. She used the tip of her tongue to lightly coax Sherlock’s lips apart. She felt the tension in Sherlock’s shoulders as she opened her lips just a bit, enough for John to taste the inside of her lower lip. John continued to lave Sherlock’s mouth gently, not pushing for more than Sherlock wanted to give. She kept one hand on Sherlock’s face while gently moving the other around Sherlock’s shoulder to rest lightly between her shoulder blades. 

 

Anxiety gripped John when she realized the trust that Sherlock had placed in her. She fought for control over her breathing, and to keep her hands still and her lips soft. After a few breaths, Sherlock relaxed and opened her lips to invite John’s tongue to explore. And explore John did, gently, lovingly, stroking Sherlock’s palate, twining their tongues slowly until Sherlock relaxed more fully against John, their torsos pressed together, Sherlock’s small, firm breasts against John’s ample cleavage.

John put the lightest pressure on Sherlock’s chin with her thumb, just enough to separate their mouths but not enough to push Sherlock away. She looked into the taller woman’s eyes to find trust and uncertainty. “Want to lie down with me? It'd be far more comfortable.”

A simple nod was all Sherlock could manage. John released her shoulders and reclined against the pillows. She patted the mattress beside her hip.

Sherlock lowered herself to lie beside John. She angled her hip away from John’s, keeping contact only at their shoulders. John reached an arm around the beautiful sable-haired woman and tried to gather her close. Sherlock shook her head adamantly. “No. Like this,” she said firmly.

“It’s alright.” 

Another shake of the head, this time more adamant.

John stroked Sherlock’s cheek soothingly. “Hey, hey, Sherlock, it’s okay. Whatever you want … need, it’s all fine with me.” She rested her arm lightly on Sherlock’s shoulder, not trying to draw her closer. Sherlock laid her head on John’s shoulder with a sigh. John stroked her lover’s back soothingly, up and down in a slow rhythm. She felt Sherlock swallow against her shoulder, then relax into the embrace.

“I’m sorry, John. This is not an area in which I’ve had reason to become well acquainted.” 

“Shhhh. It’s fine. It feels good to have you here. Just like this.” John kept up her gentle strokes.

“But how long until this isn’t enough? I give you five weeks before this will become inadequate and you will come up with a convenient reason to end this flirtation and take up with someone more suited to your sex drive.” 

John kissed Sherlock’s forehead tenderly. “ _This_ is what I want. You are fine just the way you are. And if anyone told you different, then they were a fool.”

John felt Sherlock shake her head again. “But I don’t know how. How to do this - to have a girlfriend. How to be a girlfriend. I don’t do relationships, John.”

“I do. It will be okay.” John tightened her arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. They laid thus, not talking, until both drifted off to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

They fell into a pattern. Every night at precisely 10 pm John headed upstairs to bed - a carryover from her years of Army discipline. Sherlock would stay up too late but never the entire night – not any more. At some time past midnight, Sherlock would tiptoe up the stairs and slide into bed next to John, who would stir a little but not completely wake. Sherlock would curl up on her side, facing away from John, and John would curl around her lover to be the ‘big spoon.’ John usually woke before Sherlock and would press light kisses to Sherlock’s nape, peppering them down her neck until she met the collar of Sherlock’s nightgown.

A few weeks, later, Sherlock’s phone pinged on the nightstand just as John slipped her hand over Sherlock’s breast. Sherlock swore under her breath as she picked it up. “Dimmock. Case.” She looked over her shoulder at John’s flushed face. “Coming?”

“Go on, get dressed. I’ll be down in a few.” 

Sherlock swung her long legs over the side of the bed. She carefully smoothed her nightgown over her thighs before standing and pulling on her rumpled blue dressing gown. John stayed in bed while Sherlock headed downstairs to dress. She knew Sherlock would take at   
least 20 minutes longer than John needed to get groomed and dressed - the advantage of having straight hair and not wearing makeup. John closed her eyes and pictured her lover’s flawlessly made-up face and carefully tousled curls and decided that it might be worth the effort if the end result was to look as gorgeous as Sherlock.

She got out of bed with a sigh. John had always been happy enough with her looks and Sherlock certainly seemed to be satisfied with John as she was. She reached for her everyday ‘uniform’ of cotton trousers, plaid button down blouse and cardigan - today’s jumper in a blue that matched her eyes. She ran a comb through her hair and tied it back in a simple ponytail at her nape. There; ready to go in less than five minutes. All she had to do was push her gun into the waistband of her jeans and brush her teeth and she’d be out the door.

Sherlock was just slipping on her shoes as John came into the living room. She was dressed in trousers for a change, a fitted navy pantsuit with white silk blouse and black oxfords. Not her normally ultra-feminine attire, but John liked it. “You look good in trousers; certainly have the arse for them. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in them.”

Sherlock looked up from tying her shoe. “I decided to go for comfort since it’s so early.” Her cheeks were tinged pink from John’s compliment.

They found a cab within minutes and were at the crime scene in an alley off Old Compton Street in less than half an hour. Dimmock, Anderson and Donovan stood chatting with the uniformed police officers just outside the yellow tape cordoning off the scene. Sherlock raised the tape and waited for John to precede her into the secure area. Dimmock followed.

“Well, clearly on her way home from a club. No sign of sexual assault but she was certainly worked over pretty good. Strangled.” Dimmock delivered his observations as if they actually told Sherlock something she hadn’t gathered in one glance at the crime scene.

Sherlock snapped on latex gloves. “She was on her way home from a club.”

“With another woman, obviously, in this neighborhood.”

Sherlock rolled her eyes and stood to look down into Dimmock’s eyes. She removed the gloves with a loud snap.

“Must you be so abysmally ignorant about everything?” Sherlock snapped. Donovan and Anderson turned to watch the scene, their attention drawn by Sherlock’s tone. “How many women do you know who are six feet four inches tall? Look at her neck - she was strangled by someone at least six inches taller than her, it’s evident from the angle of the finger marks. Must you make assumptions because a woman went to a club in Old Compton?”

Dimmock’s face flushed in anger. “Well, you know what this neighborhood is known for!”

Sherlock turned on her heel and strode angrily away from the body. She jerked the crime scene tape up, ducked under and let it snap down behind her. Her coat swirled as she rounded the corner to the main road.

Dimmock looked at John with a question in his eyes. “What’s up her arse? What’d I do?”

John shook her head sadly. “You saw, but you did not observe.” It gave John no satisfaction to repeat Sherlock’s oft-said words.

Dimmock shook his head. “Listen, I don’t much like riddles and have no idea what you’re talking about. If you have something relevant to add this case tell me. Otherwise just go.”

John strode over to the tape. She gave first Donovan then Anderson a meaningful look. They both nodded slightly. Sally held the tape high for John. She leaned close to John’s ear as John ducked underneath. “Do you think Sherlock can handle this case?” Her voice was sincerely concerned.

John paused and looked between Sally and Anderson. “I don’t think there’s anyone more qualified in the city to solve this murder.”

Sally and Anderson exchanged a look. Anderson answered. “We know.” 

John jerked her head toward the crime scene. “Might want to request a change of DI on this case then. Someone with less prejudices.”

Sally huffed a laugh. “Yeah, Dimmock's pretty clueless.”

John started after Sherlock, then spun around after a few steps. “Any chance this case could be transferred to Lestrade?

“I’m pretty sure Dimmock will be quite eager to hand it over to Lestrade once we have a chat with him.” Anderson smiled grimly.

John nodded once, straightened her spine, turned and headed out to find Sherlock in the early morning fog. She shouted her thanks over her shoulder.

She caught up with her flatmate after marching double-time for five blocks. Sherlock was striding angrily, her flat oxford shoes and trousers allowing her a wider stride than usual. “Sherlock, wait up.”

Sherlock continued on, pretending to not hear John calling her. John broke into a jog. She shied around Sherlock and cut into her path. Sherlock pulled up short. 

“Sherlock. Are you okay?”

“Of course I’m alright. Why wouldn’t I be? I’m fine. Nothing wrong with me.” Sherlock snapped each word in quick succession. Which indicated to John that she clearly was not okay.

John put her hands on Sherlock’s waist under her greatcoat. “Sherlock. That was upsetting.”

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth turned down. “She was murdered because of who she is. Beaten and strangled. Markings on her neck and body indicate she was assaulted by another person at least four inches taller than her. Not many women that much over six feet. So she was beaten and strangled by a man, because of who she _is._ And all that idiot Dimmock can imagine was that it’s a lovers spat with a girlfriend. Why would that upset me?” Sherlock’s voice cracked on the last word.

John reached up to stroke Sherlock’s face. “Dimmock’s an idiot. Come on, love. Let’s get a cab home.”

Sherlock shook her head, making her curls bob. “I need to think. I’ll walk.” Sherlock’s text alert sounded. She dug her phone out of her pocket. “Lestrade. He’s taking over the case from Dimmock.” She glanced into John’s eyes and lifted an eyebrow. 

John fell into step beside Sherlock. “That was fast. And a vast improvement.” She laced Sherlock’s fingers into hers to offer silent comfort. Sherlock sighed and adjusted her stride to match John’s shorter legs as they walked home in the gloom. 

 

Sherlock’s phone chimed again in the wee hours of the following night. She fumbled it to her face, squinting at it in the dark. “Lestrade. Another murder, same area. Looks like we have a serial killer on our hands.”

John snapped on the bedside lamp. She searched Sherlock’s face. “Is it…”

“Yes.” Sherlock looked away, her jaw clenched. “Another woman.” Sherlock’s shoulders slumped as she pulled on her dressing gown. It was clear to John that her lover took no joy in this particular serial killer - it certainly wasn’t Christmas this time.

Sherlock looked out of her side window silently in the cab on the way to the crime scene. John took her hand and squeezed. “You don’t have to do this, Sherlock. You can pass on this case. It’s okay. Let Lestrade’s team handle it.”

Sherlock looked at their hands, joined on the seat between them. “I _do_ need to work this case, John. Who better than me to catch this killer?” John squeezed again.

 

Lestrade met them as they exited the cab. “Sherlock, this scene is … brutal. And I’ve seen the worst of them. I just want you to be prepared. The murder wasn’t content to just strangle her. He carved a word into her skin.” 

Sherlock tilted her head and looked into Lestrade’s eyes intently. “And that word is?”

Lestrade dropped his gaze and answered quietly. “Freak.”

Sherlock flinched. Donovan had called her that many times but it had always been in reference to her fascination with murders and crime scenes. Sherlock had never felt that Sally meant it as an insult to her, not a slur. And now a woman was dead with that horrible slur carved into her body. 

They followed Lestrade through the yellow tape. The victim was laid out on her back on the pavement. She was badly beaten, bloody, with abrasions around her throat indicating she’d been strangled. This time the murderer had pulled up the victim’s blouse. FREAK was carved in jagged letters just above the waistband. 

Sherlock donned gloves, snapped open her magnifier and examined the body. After a moment she glanced up at John with a look of despair. “John, this was done with a scalpel.”

“Just because someone used a scalpel doesn’t mean it was a doctor. Lots of people have access to scalpels.” 

Sherlock continued her perusal of the dead woman. After a few minutes she stood and peeled off the gloves. Lestrade looked on expectantly. Sherlock cleared her throat delicately. She tried to start her normal stream of deductions, but it was clear to John that Sherlock was having difficulty. John stepped forward and laid a hand on Sherlock’s forearm.

Sherlock flinched away, shaking John’s hand off in the process. “I. Am. Fine.” Sherlock bit at John. “I don’t need your coddling.”

John took an involuntary step backward at the venom in Sherlock’s tone. She held her hands up, palms toward Sherlock, in wordless surrender.

Sherlock spun toward Lestrade and began her deductions at breakneck speed. “Victim was female, between 29 and 32 years old, was obviously out clubbing tonight, drank between two and three drinks but not enough to be inebriated. As you can see, she was beaten and strangled in the same manner as last night’s victim, the word was cut into her abdomen post mortem, most likely with a surgical scalpel, from the murderer’s carving technique it’s clear he was a trained medical professional, surgeon or veterinarian. Murderer is male, between 6’3” and 6’4”.” 

When she was done Sherlock spun with a swirl of coat and stalked off toward the main road, snapping the crime scene tape up roughly to let herself through. Lestrade glanced toward John, open mouthed with shock. 

“I’d better…” John began but let her sentence fade as she hurried after Sherlock.

“Yea, you can fill out the paperwork later,” Lestrade called after them.

Sherlock was just getting into a cab as John emerged from the alley. John sprinted across the pavement before Sherlock could shut the door. When John made to get in after her, Sherlock spoke harshly. “No. I’m not going home.”

John stooped to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “I can...”

“No.” Sherlock cut off John with one word and slammed the door.


	5. Chapter 5

The flat was dark and empty when John arrive home with groceries after a long shift at the clinic the following day. John left the groceries on the kitchen countertop and pulled out her phone to check for texts or messages. There were none. John had called Sherlock three times and texted her five times that day but Sherlock had not replied. John had told herself all day not to worry, but now that Sherlock had been MIA for over 16 hours, John gave in to the anxiety she’d held at bay all day. 

Sherlock still had not come home by John’s bedtime. Since John had a shift the next day, she went ahead to bed. She tossed and turned, waiting for Sherlock entering the flat or a text from Sherlock to tell her she was alright. 

John woke groggy the next morning. For the first time since Sherlock had started coming to John’s bed, Sherlock had not come to John in the night. John swallowed her disappointment and gathered her clothes for work.

It stung, even more when John found Sherlock’s coat and scarf hanging on her hook, but it was also a relief. Sherlock must have come home sometime after John retired but had elected to stay in her own room for the night. 

John showered and dressed, made coffee and toast but still did not hear any sounds emerging from Sherlock’s room. She wanted to go in there and check on Sherlock, but the way Sherlock had rejected her attempts at comfort the prior day made John hesitate. She decided that leaving a note would be more sensitive than knocking at Sherlock’s door.

_Sherlock,_  
I’m off to work. I’ll be home about 6.  
Please call or text to let me know you’re OK.  
Love,  
John 

John sighed as she locked the door behind her. She wished she could call off her shift today, but she’d called off so many shifts in order to accompany Sherlock on cases, and she was still the ‘low man on the totem pole’ at the clinic. She said a silent prayer to any deity that may have been listening to take care of Sherlock until she returned home.

~*~

John once again found herself in a dark flat when she returned home that evening. She had picked up a thing or two from working and living with Sherlock, so she was able to ascertain from several different clues that Sherlock had only just left the flat. The kettle was still warm, Sherlock’s leather armchair still showed clear indentations in the seat and back and her bedroom door was ajar. It hurt John to think that Sherlock had anticipated when John would return and slipped out before she arrived. 

John was confused as to why Sherlock was shutting her out, both from her life and from the case. She’d left voicemails and texts for Sherlock during her breaks at the clinic but Sherlock had not responded. Along with feeling rejected, John felt lonely. She hadn’t realized what a large space Sherlock had come to occupy in her life until two days without her made it painfully clear. Yet another evening spent in front of the telly and another night spent alone left John feeling off center and bereft.

~*~

At dusk on third day, John broke down and called Lestrade. She was embarrassed to be checking up on her flatmate, but this time worry won out over embarrassment. Lestrade confirmed that he had seen Sherlock during the past two days and that she was actively working the serial murder case. John thanked him. She was tempted to ask him to tell Sherlock to call her, but didn’t want to let Lestrade know that Sherlock was shutting her out. 

She ended the call and dropped her phone on the coffee table, dejected. John had had the day off from the clinic and spent the entire day indoors, afraid she might miss Sherlock if she left the flat even for a brief moment. Having spent her day inside had left her on edge. Sherlock hadn’t come home the night before nor had she made an appearance during the day. If she were working on any other case, John would not be so concerned. But Sherlock’s odd behavior at the scene of the second woman’s murder had set alarm bells ringing in the back of John’s head, and the longer Sherlock remained AWOL, the louder the alarm rang.

John tried to stay awake into the night but succumbed to sleep sometime after midnight, slumped in her armchair in front of the telly. The click of a lock in the front door woke her in the wee hours before dawn. She switched on a lamp as Sherlock ascended the stairs.

Sherlock avoided John’s eye as she hung up her coat and stepped out of her stiletto pumps. John gasped when she got a full look at Sherlock. Gone was the elegant woman in conservative clothing and tasteful makeup. In her place was a gross caricature of the Sherlock that John loved: heavy eye shadow that started under Sherlock’s brow and went to her eyelashes in swaths of white, lavender and purple, all heavily frosted. False eyelashes gave Sherlock’s face a near-comic look. Rouge spots in fuchsia on her cheekbones and even brighter fuchsia lipstick. Sherlock’s hair was teased and sprayed to a truly alarming mess that added inches to her already statuesque height. And her clothes: sheer, tight white knit top that bared her midriff and dark purple spandex mini skirt that barely covered her arse.

“Sherlock, what are you…”

“Stop. Just. Stop now. This is none of your concern, John. I’ve got this case covered. I won’t need your help this time.” Sherlock had made a habit of cutting John off mid-sentence and John didn’t like it a bit.

“Hang on one minute, Sherlock. You went out tonight, didn’t you? You went to the clubs in Old Compton Street!” 

Sherlock narrowed her eyes and met John’s gaze. “I told you, John, I won’t need your assistance.” She turned and went into the kitchen.

John followed close behind. “Sherlock! Don’t. Don’t try to shut me out.”

Sherlock remained silent as she took a glass from the cupboard and filled it from the tap. She turned toward John slowly. “John. You can’t understand. I …”

It was John’s turn to cut Sherlock off. “I can’t understand! I understand that I care for you and you’re mad for putting yourself out as _bait_ for a serial killer!”

Sherlock took a long drink before answering cooly. “Mad? Or a freak, like the victims?”

John shook her head adamantly. “No, Sherlock, that’s not what I meant at all.”

“I assure you, John, I have been in no danger these past two nights. I was in a club surrounded by a dozen of the Met’s finest plainclothes officers, wired for sound, in full view of the club’s CCTV cameras. And if that’s not enough for you, two additional uniformed officers were stationed at the building’s entrance and exit. And I was being rather blatant in my behavior. It would have been impossible for the killer to apprehend me without being caught.” Sherlock spewed words like bullets from a semiautomatic rifle, fast and sharp. 

John took two steps forward, entering the edge of Sherlock’s personal space cautiously. She reached a tentative hand toward Sherlock's shoulder. “Hey,” John said gently, “I can help.”

Sherlock allowed the hand on her shoulder but kept her eyes on the floor. “It’s better if you’re here, at home. I don’t want you to see me this way. See me looking like a ...”

“Sherlock, even if you’re playing a part for a case, you will always be a lady. No matter how you’re dressed.”

Sherlock crumpled into John’s arms and buried her face in John’s hair. She sighed, “This is hard. It’s everything I’ve tried not to be.”

John stroked soothing circles up and down Sherlock’s spine. She turned her head and kissed Sherlock’s temple. “I know, but you don’t have to do this alone. Not any more. Please, don’t shut me out.”

Sherlock lifted her head and looked down at John for a long moment. John felt the last of the tension leave Sherlock’s shoulders as she kissed John’s forehead. “I need a shower. I’ll be up in a bit.”

~*~

Sherlock had the most gorgeous collection of lingerie. It seemed to John that Sherlock hardly wore the same nightgown twice. She favored dark colors: dark red, navy, aubergine, darkest forest, black. They contrasted beautifully with her creamy, pale skin. She also had a few pastels: lavender, peach, palest mint green. All were sleeveless satins and silks and fell to the middle of Sherlock’s slender thighs. John’s special favorite was a peach satin gown with sheer lace inserts at the shoulders and buttons to the waist. .

John’s nightwear consisted of faded t-shirts from concerts she’d seen as an undergrad, flannel pyjama bottoms, cut-off cotton joggers and even a few pairs of plaid men’s boxers. She considered buying some new night things, feminine lace and silk that Sherlock would like. Then she realized that Sherlock wanted to be with her, not her night clothes. John was comfortable as she was, faded t-shirts and men’s boxers and all, and if Sherlock liked John, she’d like her just as well in faded cotton as she would in new silk.

John drifted off waiting for Sherlock but woke fully when Sherlock slipped between the sheets. She nestled behind Sherlock, pushing a knee between Sherlock’s long, lovely legs. She draped an arm over Sherlock’s waist, careful to keep her hand on Sherlock’s abdomen just below her breasts. John rose up on the other elbow to kiss Sherlock’s long, graceful neck. She licked and sucked from just behind her lover’s ear to the top of the peach satin nightgown. She looked into Sherlock’s eyes, a questioning look on her face, as she slipped a finger beneath the sheer peach lace over Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock gave the tiniest nod and John slowly popped the tiny buttons one-handed until the gown was open to Sherlock’s waist, showing a tiny, tantalizing slice of pale skin. “Can I?” John whispered and Sherlock again nodded.

John leaned over to mouth Sherlock’s nipple through the thin fabric. She sucked lightly then grazed the hardened nub gently with her teeth. Sherlock slumped back against the pillow. John teased the edge of the nightgown, running two fingers barely underneath to stroke the top of Sherlock’s breast. Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath. 

“I hope you don’t mind, but I did think you looked sexy in that getup earlier.” John smiled fondly at her lover. Sherlock rolled her eyes and huffed. The tension of the past few days drained away from both women as John slowly pushed the nightgown to either side to reveal Sherlock’s small, firm breasts. Sherlock’s skin was soft, creamy, so pale it glowed in the dim light. Small pink nipples puckered under John’s caress. John breathed gently against the nipple closest to her and reveled in Sherlock’s answering shiver. 

John stroked from Sherlock’s neck to her side, running a hand along her lover’s ribs to her waist, then down to her hip. Sherlock shifted and tensed. “I won’t touch you anywhere you don’t want. Just tell me and I’ll stop.”

John sensed Sherlock’s growing tension and moved her hand back to Sherlock’s ribs. She gently kissed Sherlock in the tender spot just behind her ear, whispering, “I’m sorry love. This is good.”

Dark curls bounced as Sherlock shook her head. “John. I can’t. I just doesn’t feel right.”

John continued to caress her lover; shoulders, arms, neck, breasts, until Sherlock once again relaxed under her touch. “It’s okay. I want you to feel good.”

She returned her mouth to Sherlock’s breast to nip and lave gently. After a while John murmured, “Sherlock, please. Touch me. Will you?”

Sherlock lifted a tentative hand and placed it between John’s shoulder blades. She stroked in small circles, fanning out over John’s shoulders and returning to the center. John sighed, “Touch me like I’m touching you. Please, love, please.”

John leaned back on an elbow to smile into Sherlock’s face. She took Sherlock’s wrist into her small hand and pulled it to her breast. The long, elegant fingers instinctively curled around John’s generous breast, which left John gasping and pressing forward into the caress. “Sherlock, yes … like that”

John’s cheeks flushed with pleasure at Sherlock’s touch. John had been the one to initiate everything so far – every kiss, every caress. Sherlock never did more than kiss back. And as lovely as it was to kiss and caress the tall beauty, John craved Sherlock’s touch. 

“Sherlock, I want … more. Do you want to watch?”

Sherlock tensed. “Watch?” she said warily.

“Yeah. Just – do what you’re doing. I … mmmm … I’ll get myself off. But I’d like to do it with you.” John’s voice was thick with desire.

Sherlock’s eyes were huge with an expression John couldn’t read. “Okay, but … I …”

“I know, love. It’s okay. You just keep touching me like you’re doing now.” John lifted her hips to hike her t-shirt up around her waist and pushed her cut off cotton pyjama bottoms down to her thighs. She heard Sherlock’s sharp inhale when she saw the thick thatch of dark blonde hair at the junction of John’s thighs. John didn’t shave, trim or wax. She raked her fingers through the curls then down, separating her labia to swipe wetness from between them and circle her clitoris with her fingertip, stroking lightly. 

“Oh!” John sighed, and Sherlock swallowed in response, her fingers still teasing John’s nipple. John rolled her hips forward, hollowing her stomach as her body responded to her strokes. She moaned Sherlock’s name then bit her lower lip as heat built in her pelvis, streaking out from the center of her pleasure. She came with clenched core, head raised off her pillow, breathing Sherlock’s name, eyes closed tight.

John relaxed back onto the pillows, letting her arm flop onto the bed beside her. She pulled Sherlock close with an arm around her shoulders and kissed her gently. “That was good,” she rasped.

Sherlock sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the mattress. “John, I’ll just be a minute, I’ll be right back.” She rushed from the room and John heard footsteps descending the stairs followed by the click of the bathroom door. Almost immediately the sound of the shower drifted up the stairs. 

John rolled to her side, the satisfaction of orgasm fading quickly at Sherlock’s hasty retreat. John found Sherlock indescribably sexy; she wished Sherlock would believe that, would trust John to touch her, to share the most intimate of acts with John.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock gyrated and swayed on the dance floor, the pink and blue lights turning her white gauze blouse nearly transparent. Considering how visible the black lace bra was through the thin fabric, the blouse seemed more than a little bit superfluous. Her short skirt was lined in flesh-toned spandex with black lace overskirt, giving the impression all she wore was black lace over bare skin. Red patent leather strappy sandals showed off her elegant feet to perfection and matched the shade of her lipstick and nail polish. Heavy makeup highlighted her cheekbones and eyes. Her normally tousled curls were teased and sprayed into a dark cloud around her head and shoulders. In all, she looked beautiful and terrible.

John leaned against a tall table pretending to sip a pint. Like the other ten plainclothes officers from the Met, she was wired into the microphone hidden in Sherlock’s bra. Several people had approached Sherlock over the past two hours but none had given any indication of being the murderer they sought. John was both terrified and eager that Sherlock would encounter the serial killer - eager to get the case solved but terrified that Sherlock would end up hurt.

Lestrade’s voice murmured in the tiny, nearly invisible earphone in John’s ear. He and Sally had spent hours poring over CCTV tapes from the various bars in the district. They had been able to identify the two women who had already been murdered and had grainy footage of the man with whom they’d left the bars. The pictures were so bad, the man could have been anyone. He was caucasian, dark haired, of indeterminate age, about 6’3” to 6’4” tall and dressed in dark jeans or trousers and a dress shirt - a different outfit in the two segments of footage. It gave them very little to go on, except that Sherlock felt they could rule out any women, fair haired men or men of color who might approach her and focus on dark haired white men in the bar. Lestrade’s voice hissed in the team’s ears, alerting them to a man that fit the general description seemed to be inching his way across the dancefloor toward Sherlock.

Sherlock dancing was a sight to behold. Her height, her lithe body, the cloud of dark hair making her creamy skin appear stark white and her perfectly made up, crimson lips stand out in alarming contrast. Every graceful motion held a promise, and watching, John felt like her ribcage was too small for her lungs. It _hurt_ to know that other people in the club were watching Sherlock, admiring and desiring her. John hadn’t thought of herself as a jealous lover before, but now she understood why Sherlock had tried to distance her from this case. And a part of her wished she’d listened to Sherlock and stayed at home - while another part of her was glad she was here to keep Sherlock safe.

The man Lestrade had alerted them to sidled up to Sherlock and fit his body behind Sherlock’s, matching his moves to hers. Lestrade alerted them all, including Sherlock. She looked back over her shoulder at the tall man, glancing up at him through her mascara-caked eyelashes, darting the tip of her tongue out to trace her lower lip. The man circled Sherlock’s waist with his large hands, pulling her back against his pelvis and swaying their bodies together. Sherlock giggled and appeared to relax against him.

John fumed, both from jealousy at seeing her lover dry-humped by a strange man, and from anxiety that Sherlock was most likely toying with a murderer. She swallowed hard and patted the comforting weight of the gun tucked into her waistband at the small of her back. 

The man leaned over to whisper in Sherlock’s ear. John couldn’t hear what he was saying, which meant Lestrade and his team couldn’t hear it, either. But Sherlock was a professional - she knew to repeat his words. “You want me to come home with you?” The man whispered again. “Want to slip out the back door?” Again the man murmured in Sherlock’s sear. “You live nearby? We can walk to your flat?” John sighed in relief that Sherlock was able to repeat the man’s whispered words and make it sound like she was flirting; Sherlock in full swing was truly amazing.

The man took Sherlock’s wrist in his large hand and lead her off the dancefloor. John and the Met team moved to follow as quickly and unobtrusively as possible. No one in the crowd would have noticed the coordinated movement of eleven men and women working their way toward the back door. John tamped down a moment of panic when she lost sight of Sherlock and the suspect in the crowd. She tried to reassure herself that a uniformed officer, also wired into the network, was stationed outside the back door. Sherlock would always be in sight of one of the squad working the case. 

...until she wasn’t. John swallowed the gorge that rose in her throat as she stepped through the exit and saw a uniformed officer was down. Shot in the calf - holding her leg and panting. John’s doctor-brain did a split-second assessment without even breaking stride: she’d be fine, no major artery hit, painful but not worth John stopping to give first aid when Sherlock was most likely in danger. 

Lestrade was second out the exit, followed closely by other Met plainclothes officers. Lestrade nodded let and right. There was a wordless understanding; they parted equally, half jogging left and half right. John split off with the team lead by Lestrade and kept pace with him as they ran into the further darkness of the alley. Their communication system was silent - the killer must have found the wire on Sherlock and ripped it out.

A scream split the darkness in front of them and John breathed a silent prayer that she’d chosen the right team to follow. The scream ended abruptly, which caused John and Lestrade to break into a sprint simultaneously and the rest of the team members to follow close behind. They came to the end of the alley. had to make a decision - go to the left or to the right. John motioned for the men and women to be quiet. She needed to listen for any sign Sherlock might be giving. 

Everyone held their breath for two heartbeats. John and Lestrade heard it at the same time: faint sounds of struggle, clothing rustling, a soft grunt in the dark alley leading off to the left. They glanced at each other and lunged left. The team followed without asking questions. A torch came on behind John. Good thinking, someone from the Met had brought along a pocket torch.

The weak LED light of the torch suddenly illuminated a terrifying tableau: Sherlock on her back on the filthy pavement, the tall dark-haired man straddling her waist, his large hands circling her neck and squeezing _hard_. Sherlock’s eyes, wide and terrified; her arms pinned under the man’s long legs, unable to defend herself; her legs kicking out ineffectively, connecting with nothing while the man strangled the life out of her. The strangest details logged in John’s mind: a black scuff on Sherlock’s red shoe - the mascara running from the corner of Sherlock’s eyes as they teared up with the effort to breathe - the way Sherlock’s mouth opened in a silent scream - an errant oak leaf caught in Sherlock’s beautiful curls.

Time snapped back into place with a force like a punch in John’s gut. She let out a war cry and lunged at the man, placed one hand on the man's face, twisted her other fist in the hair at the back of this head and jerked backward violently. He was tall, and wiry, and strong and very reluctant to let go of Sherlock’s neck. John jerked again but the murderer held fast. 

“John!” Lestrade’s sharp bark cut through the scarlet rage-fog saturating John’s brain. John let go of the murderer’s hair and spun toward Lestrade. She wasn’t sure exactly what move Lestrade dropped on the man, but in an instant the tall man was sprawled on the filthy bricks of the alley then rolled to his side clutching his middle. Lestrade lunged for the man while John dropped to her knees at Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock struggled to sit up. She took great lungfulls of breath, making moaning noises with each inhalation and coughing on the following exhale. John slipped an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and helped her to sit. She left her arm in place to comfort Sherlock while she murmured nonsense syllables in her ear. Sherlock’s eyes were wide with panic and she tried to shrug off John’s arm.

“It’s all right, Sherlock. Breathe, you’re going to be okay. We’re here, you’re safe now.” John tried to make her voice gentle and soothing, hoping to break through the panic still gripping Sherlock.

At last Sherlock ceased her struggle. She slumped against John, her weight inert in John’s arms. Shuddering and gasping, Sherlock attempted to contain her panic and regain her composure. John wasn’t sure what was happening across the alley but sounds of struggle broke through the roaring in her ears. 

Still supporting Sherlock, John sat back on her haunches to watch the action happening a few feet away. Lestrade struggled to contain the murderer. The man had at least five inches on Lestrade and easily outweighed him by 40 pounds - all muscle. The cramped alley left little room for Lestrade’s team to help him subdue the suspect. 

Lestrade finally wrestled the murderer to the ground and a few well-placed kicks to the man’s ribs and hip took the fight out of him at last. The man screamed obscenities while a plainclothes officer cuffed him and Lestrade jerked him roughly to his feet. 

John helped Sherlock stand and kept her arm firmly around Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock still shivered intermittently but her breathing had returned to normal and the panic seemed to leave her at last. She faced her would-be murderer in the white light of the pocket torch.

The man snarled viciously when Sherlock turned to face him. She regarded him silently for several minutes; John could tell from the look on Sherlock’s face that she was deducing but kept her deductions to herself. John slipped her arm lower, around Sherlock’s hip, squeezing to help ground Sherlock and let her know she was safe.

At last the suspect calmed enough to form words. “Think you’re smart, don’t you, freak? You and women like you. Going against natural order, against what God wants. God hates you! You’re going to hell, you know. You make me sick. You think you can fool around with men and women and no one gets hurt. You lot go around turning good Christian women gay. You’re all whores and freaks. You’re all going to hell!” Spittle flew from the man’s lips while he flung words like darts at Sherlock.

Lestrade jerked the cuffs behind the deranged man’s back to quiet him. Sherlock was visibly shaken by the man’s outburst. The corners of her mouth pulled down into a scowl; her eyes narrowed. She stepped forward and stared at the man for a moment, working her lips. She spat in the raving man’s face.

“If there is a freak in this alley, it is you. Lesbians and bisexual women are no threat to you . Your wife left you for another woman, didn’t she? She married you to please her fundamentalist Christian parents but after a few years she left you to live her life as who she really is. And you think her girlfriend turned her gay. Let me assure you, her lover did not turn her anything. Your wife is expressing who she is. The disgusting thing is how she had to live a lie to please her parents and you! How can you be so vile, murdering women for being who they are?” Sherlock’s words cut like knives in the dark alley.

The man snarled down into Sherlock’s face. “It is too her fault. My wife was happy until she met that woman. Happy to live as God ordained, one man and one woman.”

John laced her fingers into Sherlock’s and squeezed gently to get her attention. Sherlock looked at her; John shook her head slightly and Sherlock understood that nothing she said could change the deranged man’s mind. She sighed and turned away from the still-raving murderer.

“You have your murderer, Lestrade. I’m done here.” Sherlock sounded exhausted.

Lestrade nodded. “You can come by tomorrow to fill out reports, both of you. And bring the communication equipment, too.” He nodded at Sherlock. “We’ve got it from here. Go get washed up and get some sleep.” He cut his eyes toward John. “And make sure she eats something tonight.”

John pulled gently on Sherlock’s hand. They headed down the alley toward the main road. Sherlock stumbled but John caught her; she left her arm around Sherlock’s waist until they entered a cab. Sherlock laid her head on John’s shoulder in the back seat and was silent on the long ride home. John held her firmly, feeling tremors rock her body periodically. When they arrived home to Baker Street, John steered Sherlock up the stairs and lowered her gently onto the sofa. She laid down beside her and pulled a soft blanket from the back of the sofa to cover them. They laid thus, silent, clinging to each other until dawn shone faintly through the tall living room windows.

When John realized that Sherlock was asleep at last, she slipped from her grasp and padded silently down the hall the bathroom. She turned the shower to its hottest setting, stripped quickly and stood under the stinging spray for a very long time, at last giving in to the emotions she’d held in check all night. She shook and cried until she was exhausted. When she turned off the spray and pulled back the shower curtain to reach for her towel, Sherlock was seated on the toilet.  
She watched silently as John toweled her hair then wrapped the damp towel around her body.

John crossed the tiny bathroom in two steps. She cupped Sherlock’s face in her hands, turning it up to face her own. Sherlock’s makeup was wrecked, mascara smudged around her eyes and lipstick stains on her lips. But what disturbed John was the look in Sherlock’s eyes - haunted, broken, raw despair. John made a soft, hurt sound and wrapped her arms around Sherlock’s shoulders and pulled Sherlock to her. She swayed, rocking Sherlock side-to-side slowly. 

Sherlock drew in several shaky breaths and relaxed into John’s rocking. Soft snuffling noises came from where her face was buried in John’s ample breasts. They stayed together for a long while, giving and taking comfort and letting the overwhelming emotions of the night mellow. Finally John kissed the top of Sherlock’s head and stepped back. She crouched over the tub, flipping the trip lever to block the drain. She turned the taps on full to flood the tub with steaming water, added a generous amount of bubble bath, then turned toward Sherlock and held out her hand. Sherlock took John’s hand and rose. John stood, too, and pulled Sherlock’s gauze blouse over her head. Sherlock shied away when John reached for the hooks of her black lace bra. 

“It’s okay, Sherlock. I just want to take care of you, wash away the dirt from tonight. I’ll turn away, you can undress and get into the tub. But please, let me take care of you now.” 

Sherlock looked into John’s eyes, her eyes darting from side to side. She found the reassurance that John tried to convey. “Turn around.”

John obediently turned toward the door that lead into Sherlock’s bedroom. She kept her eyes on the door while she heard the sound of a zipper, then rustle of clothing behind her. She kept her back turned when she heard Sherlock settle into the tub, then splash about for a moment. Sherlock turned off the taps then spoke. “You can turn around now.”

John turned and knelt beside the tub. Sherlock reclined in the water, thick bubbles covering her all the way to her neck. John smiled reassuringly while she soaped a net bath puff. She started at Sherlock’s neck and stroked downward, working the soapsuds into Sherlock’s skin in a gentle massage, over her shoulders, down her arms, across her breasts and down her ribs. John kept her touch gentle and kind, comfort her intent, not sex. Sherlock relaxed under John’s gentle hands.

“Sit up, let me wash your hair.”

Sherlock leaned forward to let John cup water over her hair. Once the teased and sprayed curls were wetted down, John worked a generous amount of shampoo through to remove the sticky product residue, then rinsed it out and massaged conditioner into Sherlock’s locks. When John was done, Sherlock scooted down and submerged her head to rinse out the last traces of conditioner. John rose and turned away again as Sherlock stepped from the tub and dried off quickly. Sherlock wrapped the damp towel tightly around herself. She stepped close to John’s back and put her arms around John’s waist. John leaned back into the embrace, grateful to have some comfort of her own after the stressful night.

“Will you sleep down here with me?” 

John nodded. It was the first time Sherlock had invited John into her bed and also the first time Sherlock had made the first move. But John understood - it wasn’t sex Sherlock needed, it was intimacy after the horrors they’d both just experienced.

John went through to Sherlock’s room. She turned down the bedding and let her damp towel fall to the floor as she slipped between the sheets. She turned toward the wall as Sherlock approached the other side of the bed. John heard Sherlock’s towel hit the floor then felt the mattress shift as Sherlock slipped in. She turned toward Sherlock and settled against her back, burying her nose in the damp curls at Sherlock’s neck and wrapping her arm around Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock settled into the embrace and sighed.

It was easier to share secrets in the dark. John started. “When I came through the door and found the officer shot.” John had to pause to get control of her voice. “I thought...thought that I’d lost you. I thought he’d outsmarted us, that he would…” John couldn’t go on. She pulled Sherlock tighter against her.

Sherlock whispered into the velvet darkness. “He shot the officer. Then he grabbed my hair and pulled me along the alley. He pulled out the wire when he jerked my hair roughly. When we got to the end, he let go of my hair. I tried to gouge his eyes. But. He caught my arm and wrenched it behind me. He forced me to my knees. Then he dragged me into the side alley and threw me down. The back of my head hit the bricks. I think I blacked out for a second. The next thing I knew, he was on me. His hands around my throat…”

“Shhhh.” John soothed Sherlock, making shushing sounds against the back of her neck while she caressed circles into her abdomen. 

“I thought he’d kill me. I thought you and Lestrade were going to be too late. And the things he said. You heard. He kept calling me names, telling me I deserved to die. Because I was a freak.”

John pulled Sherlock closer and whispered into her ear. “You are not a freak. Any more than I am.”

Sherlock cut her off before John could continue. “It’s not just that. John. He thought I was a freak for being a lesbian. But it’s more. It’s…”

Everything clicked for John in a flash of insight. She sat up, pushing away from Sherlock slightly to give the taller woman room. “Oh my god, Sherlock. You… oh my god… I pushed you into sex and you didn’t want to..you didn’t want…I thought it was just … just … but you...”

Sherlock pulled the sheet up to her underarms, covering her breasts in the dim dawn light. She sat up to lean against the headboard. She faced John in the dark. “I’m sorry, John. I’m sorry, I’d never done anything like it before and I just thought, if I tried it. that maybe…”

John made a wet sound between a laugh and a sob. “Sherlock, my god, I thought. It was about your body, that you weren't comfortable with me seeing your body, touching you. Oh my god, I forced you…”

Sherlock put her hand on John’s shoulder. “You didn’t force me. I thought, if I tried it, maybe it would be ok. That maybe I’d want … that.”

“You’re asexual.” John breathed the statement, as if to say it too loudly would give it gravity. “And I didn’t … I thought you were inexperienced, that you just weren't sure what to do.” John swallowed, too pained to go on. She hung her head.

“I was inexperienced, John. I’d never tried anything like … that … before. Because I’d never wanted to. I’ve never felt the …”

“You don’t feel sexual attraction.”

“No.” Sherlock's normally rich voice sounded flat.

“Oh my god. I forced you to. When you didn’t want that … and … oh my god, you … I made you watch while I … and I thought you left to masturbate in the shower because you didn’t want me to see your body. Oh god, I had it so wrong. I’m so, so sorry Sherlock.” The pain she felt was evident in John’s voice. Sherlock’s had was still on her shoulder so she squeezed gently.

“John, you didn’t do anything wrong. I tried, with you … because I thought maybe I’d finally feel something sexual. But. I’m sorry. I understand … just, why don’t you go.”

“Go? You want me to leave?” John finally gave in to tears. “I’m sorry, Sherlock! I messed it all up and now you hate me for forcing you to…” 

“Hate you? No!” Sherlock sounded sincerely confused.

“Then why are you asking me to leave?” 

“Because you’re a sexual woman. You like sex. I don’t. Of course you’ll leave. You’re beautiful, and kind and friendly. You can have any person you want. Why would you stay with me when I can’t give you what you need?”

John reached for Sherlock’s hands. She laced their fingers together. “Then I’m not going anywhere, Sherlock. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

“But you like sex. I don’t feel that way, I wanted to try, for your sake, but John I really don’t want it.”

John squeezed Sherlock’s fingers. “What did I just say, Sherlock? Did you hear me? I want to be with you. Did I say anything about sex?”

Sherlock hung her head. She spoke through the veil of her damp curls. “That’s what you say now. But what about in five years? Five years without sex? Will you love me then? Ten years? Will you think about what you gave up for me? Will I do something to make you angry, and you’ll shout ‘I gave up sex for you!’ Just … don’t. I don’t want to put us both through that. Go now, before it gets worse. Please.”

John turned away. She crouched beside the bed and felt for her discarded towel in the dark. When she found it, she wrapped it around her body and tucked the corners under her arms. She turned toward Sherlock in the dark. “Sherlock, you had a horrifying experience tonight. I’ll go upstairs because you asked me to leave. But I don’t want to leave you. I think I love you. Please think things over and consider giving us a chance.” 

John waited through two long breaths but when Sherlock didn’t answer, she turned away and went to her room without another word.


	7. Chapter 7

John woke with a headache. She’d tossed and turned most of the night, replaying the times she’d spent in bed with Sherlock over and over in her mind. How Sherlock would slip into bed and be content with gentle kisses and embraces. How she, John, had been the one to push things further every time. John berated herself in her own mind over not picking up on Sherlock’s tentative replies when John had asked permission to take things further, and Sherlock’s lack of response. Her cheeks burned when she thought of how she’d been so aroused by Sherlock, she’d chosen to misread every signal Sherlock sent because it served her own desires. 

And John missed having Sherlock beside her, missed her warmth, the feel of her silky nightgown against her, the fresh, clean smell of her hair. Her arms felt empty and her bed felt huge without Sherlock’s presence.

Sherlock was sitting in her chrome-and-leather armchair with her blue silk dressing gown belted over a burgundy lace nightgown when John came down the next morning. John went into the kitchen and found coffee already made in the carafe and a plate of blueberry muffins; Mrs. Hudson had been up while John still slept. John put a muffin on a plate and poured herself a cup of coffee then carried them into the living room. She took a seat across from Sherlock and glanced at her flatmate warily.

All the uncertainty she’d felt during the night fell away when John saw the bruises circling Sherlock’s neck, clearly the imprint of the deranged man who had tried to strangle Sherlock the night before. She sat her plate and cup quickly on the table beside her chair and sank to her knees beside Sherlock’s chair, reaching up to lay a comforting hand on Sherlock’s nape. 

“Aww, Sherlock, look at your neck. Christ, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize he’d done so much damage. Please, let me examine you. He could have done permanent damage to your larynx or thyroid.” She reached both hands gently to the front of Sherlock’s neck. “Can I?”

Sherlock nodded slightly. John palpated her throat from clavicle to mandible, careful to keep her touch gentle and professional. 

“Everything feels okay, but I’d feel better if you got images taken. I’m on at the clinic from 10 to 7 today. Can you come in for xrays and ultrasound?

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. I’m fine.” Sherlock bit back in reply.

John rose slowly, reluctant to lose the tentative physical contact with Sherlock. She looked down at Sherlock but Sherlock avoided her gaze.

“Well then, I’d better…” John let her words trail off as she picked up her now-cold coffee and muffin. She returned to the kitchen and added a little more coffee to heat up the cup, then carried it up to her room to get ready for work. 

When John came down three quarters of an hour later, the living room was empty. John peeked down the hall but Sherlock's door was closed. John wondered if this would be her life now: Sherlock avoiding conversation, trying to avoid even being in the same room with her. How long would John be able to bear it - having the woman she loved treating her like a stranger? She sighed and donned her coat, closing the door to the flat quietly in case Sherlock had fallen back to sleep.

 

~*~

 

John sat in her tiny examination room at the clinic, rubbing her eyes and trying to relax for a few minutes between patients. Her intercom buzzed followed by the receptionists’ voice. “Dr. Watson, I’m sending a new patient back.” John signed and signaled the receptionist that it was alright.

When she opened the door, John came face to face with Sherlock. “Oh,” John said in surprise.

“You said to come in for a scan.”

John stepped back quickly and opened the door wider, motioning for Sherlock to enter. “Yes, yes, I’m glad you’re here. Just give me a minute. I need to get the ultrasound cart. Have a seat, I’ll be right back.”

Sherlock was leaning against the side of the examination table when John reentered the room pushing the ultrasound cart. Sherlock had slipped her coat off and folded it over a chair near the door while John was gone. John felt better in her own work environment; at home, she’d been unsure of how to approach Sherlock after the night they’d had.

“Hop up on the table. Can you unbutton the top three buttons of your blouse and lie down?”

Sherlock did as John asked. John applied gel to the ultrasound wand and passed it over Sherlock’s neck. After a few minutes of carefully observing the ultrasound monitor, John turned to meet Sherlock’s eye. “Everything looks good. Other than the bruising, I don't see any injuries. Normally I’d send you for an xray but based on the ultrasound I don't believe it’s necessary.” John smiled at Sherlock and held out her hand to help her sit.

Sherlock sat on the examination table and buttoned her blouse. John busied herself cleaning off the ultrasound wand with disinfectant wipes. She handed Sherlock a paper towel so she could wipe the gel from her neck. 

When she’d cleaned the equipment and pushed the cart to the corner, John stood uncertainly. Sherlock seemed to be dawdling; John couldn’t guess why. When John could no longer take the tense silence between them, she straightened her spine then spoke without forethought. “Sherlock, I’m not good at these things. I’m a person of action, not words. But I want you to know, I meant what I said. I love you, and I want to show that to you in any way you’d be comfortable with. I don’t need sex. I need you. If you want to go back to being flatmates - friends - then I’ll respect that. But know, whether you’ll let me love you or not, I will still love you.”

John snapped her jaw shut. She blushed under Sherlock’s gaze. 

“And in a few years, you won’t resent …”

John cut off Sherlock’s words. “I can’t tell the future, Sherlock. But I can tell, I’ve never felt this way about anyone. I want you, whatever you can give me.”

Sherlock slipped off the table and stood facing John. She looked deeply into John’s eyes, her face set in grave lines. John looked back without reservation, hoping her eyes could reflect what she felt in her heart. After a long moment with the corners with Sherlock’s mouth turned down in concentration, she seemed to find what she was seeking. 

“Alright.”

John smiled. “Alright? That’s all you’ve got to say?”

Sherlock smiled back. “Alright, now kiss me?”

John did, cradling Sherlock’s face in her hands, pulling her down for a tender, lingering kiss. When John finally stepped back, Sherlock stayed put with her eyes closed. “Okay?” John asked quietly.

Sherlock nodded and opened her eyes. “More than okay.” She smiled; her real, unguarded smile that few people had the privilege to see.

The intercom on John’s desk buzzed. John turned to depress the speaker button. “Dr. Watson, you have several patients queued.” The receptionist sounded flustered.

Sherlock laughed and opened the door. “See you at home later?”

John smiled warmly. “Home. Yeah, see you about seven.”

After Sherlock excited in a swish of coat, John had a few minutes to think. _Home._ It had been years since she’d truly had a home. And now she’d found not only a home, but a home full of love together with Sherlock.


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue

Sherlock was in the Baker Street kitchen when John came in from her shift at the clinic. John heard pan lids clanging and smiled. 

“John - hello!” Sherlock’s voice came over the metallic sound. The noise stopped as John hung up her jacket and John heard Sherlock murmuring.

John came through the kitchen doorway to find Sherlock propping Isobel, their ten month old daughter, on her hip. Several pots, pans and lids were on the floor at her feet. The cubby toddler looked up at John with her piercing blue eyes and squealed. Her perfect pink mouth curved in a giggle. 

John took the baby from Sherlock and kissed her towhead curls. “There’s my girl. Have you been good for Mummy S today?”

Sherlock looked up from the pasta she was stirring. “I had a call from Lestrade so she spent most of the day with Mrs. Hudson.”

John kissed Isobel’s creamy cheek. She glanced at Sherlock with an eager smile. “Anything interesting?”

Sherlock made a vague gesture with her hand. “Barely a five. Solved it in two hours. Dull, but it pays the bills.” She gave John a mischievous grin.

“Oi! This girl’s been slaving away with a bunch of sick people to pay the bills.” John pointed to herself with her free hand.

Sherlock put the spoon she’d been using aside and came over to embrace John and the baby. “I know, John. And I appreciate it, so I can spend more time with our daughter. Thank you.”

The toddler squirmed in her mums’ embrace. John bent down and sat her on the floor next to the pots and pan lids she’d been banging to amuse herself. She babbled happily and grabbed the handle of a saucepan to bring it down on the floor with a loud crash while her mums embraced.

John broke the kiss first but kept her arms around Sherlock’s waist. “You know what today is?” 

“Five years. We met five years ago today. I’m making dinner to celebrate. And I picked up a nice bottle of Riesling when I was out earlier.”

John massaged circles into the small of Sherlock’s back with her thumbs. “Five years. Happy anniversary, love.”

Sherlock blushed. “And you don’t feel like …”

John stepped back. She twined her fingers in Sherlock’s. “Please, don’t. Not today. I love you and that’s all we need to talk about.”

Sherlock smiled. John saw a lingering emotion in Sherlock’s eyes, an uncertainty that John’s loving assurances could never completely banish. When they had Isobel it did seem to make Sherlock a little more confident in their life together but she still sometimes brought up issues that John had long ago considered decided between them. John pressed a tender kiss to Sherlock’s temple.

John felt a tug at the knee of her jeans. She broke the kiss to look down at their beautiful daughter, so much like her mother but with a beauty all her own. “Izzy want up? Did you miss Mummy J?”

Sherlock rolled her eyes as she turned back to the cooktop. "If you could be so kind as to try to struggle to the end of our daughter’s very elegant name, John. The name that, if I must point out, you suggested.” Her words were sharp but her tone was playful.

“But Mummy S got to pick your middle name, didn’t she, Isobel Katherine?” John nuzzled the baby’s pudgy neck to make her giggle. “Izzy Kate,” John teased in a sing-song voice.

“Oh for gods’ sake.” Sherlock grumbled over her shoulder, smiling.

John snuggled the toddler to her hip and stepped beside Sherlock to give her a peck on the cheek. “Happy anniversary, sweetheart. And many more.”


End file.
